


Maketh Man

by asteriscus



Category: Critical Role (Web Series) RPF
Genre: Character Study?, Crossdressing, Except not really?, Feminization, Multi, well there's some of that too actually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-26 20:19:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16688275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asteriscus/pseuds/asteriscus
Summary: He refuses to let it be weird. Of course, it has been well established that there are aspects of his very identity that rely on distilled weirdness, but not this. Really, it's quite nonsensical that there aren't more men who enjoy dressing up in a nice, airy skirt now and then. This could be normal, should be normal, even, so Taliesin refuses to let it be weird. Except for the fact that he doesn't wear it outside, of course.Societal norms have never agreed with Taliesin. Sometimes he wears a dress. It's not a big deal.





	Maketh Man

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting hidden away for a long time, so I figured like all moments of insecurity and creation it must at some time see the light of day. A while ago Taliesin mentioned on Gather Your Party that he owns a dress. My mind went places, because it does that sometimes.
> 
> You know the drill. Don't appreciate RPF? Feel free to look the other way. Please don't ever show this to the cast, nor inform them that it exists.
> 
> <3*

The house dress isn't exactly simple, per se, but it is elegant. It certainly doesn't sport much colour; black on black where it falls, the ruffled hem dancing just below Taliesin's knees as he strolls around the house going about his regular business for the day. The skirt flows to and fro, which from time to time bathes his thighs in a gentle breeze. It's got layers. It's softer like that. Fluffier.

He refuses to let it be weird. Of course, it has been well established that there are aspects of his very identity that rely on distilled weirdness, but not this. Really, it's quite nonsensical that there aren't more men who enjoy dressing up in a nice, airy skirt now and then. This could be normal, _should_ be normal, even, so Taliesin refuses to let it be weird. Except for the fact that he doesn't wear it outside, of course. It's easy to hide an unsteady decision behind a steadfast purpose.

“It's a house dress,” he'll say. “It belongs indoors.”   
Explanations, not excuses.  
He doesn't wear it to feel feminine, or even feminized-- although that's also fun, of course. Sometimes. He's gone through his fair share of male partners, some of whom looked absolutely delicious in something tight and fashioned from satin and lace. All of whom would, had they just taken the plunge and tried it.

(“You should see Matt in panties”, he blurts, drunk-sleepily, maybe to Key, perhaps Satine, he no longer remembers, and everyone and their mom knows he means Mercer. Perhaps that much is obvious; that milquetoast man with his silky locks who's simply too pretty for his own good. “Goes bright red. Looks fuckin’ edible like that”.)

For him, however...no, the dress is for comfort. At least that's what he bought it as, a years back when the humid LA summer made even the thought of wearing long trousers when not strictly necessary sound torturous. He bought it a couple sizes up back then, from fear that he might not dare return for another and the intention that it wouldn't see much rough wear.

When one has lived with as many people as Taliesin has, one learns quickly that self-expression needs to happen without shame, because otherwise it won't happen at all. The first time he donned the dress, arms bare and pale in the early morning light, thighs rubbing together beneath the ruffled skirt, he expected there to be no trouble. And there was none. Confusion, perhaps, but never trouble. He carries himself as though respect is already given, and so it is.

It was when he started falling into bed with his friends that the unforeseen started happening. He's made good use of that open relationship status over the years, and he's always been just a little bit in love with them all, so he figured  _fuck it, why not_ , if he's doing this it better happen while he's still got a refractory period of less than 24 hours and semi-functional knees.

He began spending evenings at Matt and Marisha’s house, which turned into nights at Matt and Marisha’s house, which turned into nights in their bed, which turned into lazy mornings spent spooning a helplessly quivering Matt, stroking him slow and sweet, with Marisha whispering filth into his ears and uncapping a bottle of lube.

They've always known that Taliesin owns a dress (several now, actually, because why would he stop at one), yet he waits longer than he initially expects to wear it when they're around. They're wonderful people, and he loves them dearly, but he can't help but feel like they'll misunderstand; like they'll think he wears it to humiliate himself. So he hesitates. Although-- he supposes they've seen him all kitted out for Burning Man, not to mention groaning with need while covered in intermingled lube and come and with a girthy plug still adorning his ass. So why not.

“Have you ever considered...going all in?” It's Marisha who asks, bless her, and it doesn't sound like judgement. Her tone is curious. Interested.

“How?”

“Oh, you know. Stockings. Lingerie.” She throws out the usual suspects, nothing too out there. Nothing they haven't already thoroughly defiled when worn by Matthew in the dim, private light of their bedroom. He would never dream of wearing it anywhere else. Matt's an easy read-- it's all about the humiliation for him. “We already know you look all dark and mysterious in eyeliner. It wouldn’t be much of a change.”

Taliesin sighs. “It's not about that. I mean, it could be? If the two of you would like me to dress up I certainly wouldn't refuse to--”

“But?”

He fiddles with one broad strap; dress bundled in his arms. “It's for comfort. Any other purpose is, you know...”

There is a glint of something hungrily hopeful in her eyes. “A welcome bonus?”

He offers an intrigued half-smirk. “Something like that.”

She nods, before a wicked grin makes her lips curl. A moment to let him decline passes without incident, and she leans in, lips on his, kissing him thoroughly. When he deepens the kiss-- one arm holding on to the dress, the other pulling her close-- her hands sneak past his belt, bypassing the hem of his underwear to cup two generous handfuls of ass. The angle is awkward, heaped ruffles pressed between them, but the way her nails dig in produces sharp little bursts of pain that without fail make his cock stir awake. Dress or no dress.

“When I think about it,” she says, squeezing before withdrawing her hands, “I think I’d prefer you going commando.”


End file.
